


There's You in Everything I Do

by JantoPhi21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Holmes Brothers feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mood Swings, Rimming, Sibling Incest, bleak ending, drug paraphernalia, therapeutical touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoPhi21/pseuds/JantoPhi21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wasn’t going to get clean if you weren’t going to give me what I wanted. I’m high, not a fucking moron,” Sherlock spread his knees and sat back on the bed. “I’ll give you my entire stash, and stay in this house, for a full forty-eight hours. That is, if you are man of your word.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Properly Appreciated

The house was dark as Mycroft got home. Another long day at work. He left his umbrella by the door and hung up his coat. London was cold and he found himself hoping that Sherlock wasn’t sleeping rough tonight. All his attempts at getting his brother clean had no effect, so, for the most part, he’d resorted to a bit of prayer and keeping an eye on him as much as he could. 

Sighing, he went up his stairs to his bedroom, only to realize there was a figure in his bed;  Sherlock, practically radiating desire.

“Fucking finally,” Sherlock sat up on his knees, his chest bare, looking ghostly white in the moonlight streaming in through the window, and far, far too thin. He glared at Mycroft, who hadn’t moved any closer. He rolled his eyes, “Afraid of me, brother dear?”

“It is a bit like seeing a ghost. You’re high.” He took off his suit coat and started undressing himself.

“Stunning deduction,” Sherlock taunted, then announced, “So. I’ve decided what I want.”

“Besides being naked in my bed?” Mycroft kept his eyes on him as he took his shirt off.

“You promised,” Sherlock’s eyes were calculating, “Said you’d do anything, give me anything, if I’d stay clean for just two days.”

“You’re high right now. That’s not clean.”

“I wasn’t going to get clean if you weren’t going to give me what I wanted. I’m high, not a fucking moron,” Sherlock spread his knees and sat back on the bed. “I’ll give you my entire stash, and stay in this house, for a full forty-eight hours. That is, if you are man of your word.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and finished removing his pants. “You want to be fucked, brother mine?”

Sherlock grinned hungrily, “Very good. And fucked properly. Not the sloppy drunken hand job you thought I’d deleted. Your very fat cock in my very fine arse. Is it a deal?”

This was so many kinds of wrong. Mycroft knew that. But Sherlock had always been beautiful. And if it would get him sober, even if only for a little while… “Very well.” Mycroft got on the bed and climbed towards him.

“How do you want me, big brother? Push my head down, punish me hard like I know you want to? Or do you want to see me? See the look on your baby brother’s face when you come in his arse?” Sherlock mocked delightfully as he started to stroke himself. 

“Perhaps I should gag you,” muttered Mycroft, picking up the lube Sherlock already had out and and coating his fingers.

“Maybe later, when I’m coming down, you can gag me with that behemoth cock of yours to keep my mind off the drugs.” Sherlock licked his lips, then winked. “I’ve been told I’ve quite the mouth on me. 

"Indeed." Mycroft glanced down. "You already prepared yourself." He pushed two elegant fingers inside. 

“No,” Sherlock gave a contented gasp, “I fucked myself on a nice thick dildo that I’ve left somewhere fun for your housekeeper to find, because you took too long to come home. But it’s not nearly as nice as you’ll be.”

"Mmm." Mycroft rolled him onto hands and knees, quickly rolled on a condom, and pushed in all at once. 

Sherlock moaned obscenely and loud; Mycroft’s cock was everything he’d hoped for, and more. Even with his previous activities, he felt the burn as his body attempted to accommodate Mycroft. 

“It’s not fair,” Sherlock pouted while waiting for Mycroft to start moving, “You’ve this fantastic cock, and you barely use it. Something like that ought to be properly appreciated.” Sherlock squeezed his muscles around Mycroft, “I appreciate it. Feels nice and full.”

Mycroft refrained from saying something similar about Sherlock's mind. He kept his silence as he started to move, pinning his brother down as he used him.

“I knew you’d- do it this way,” Sherlock huffed as Mycroft built up the strength behind his thrusts, “Trying to forget it’s me- forget what a filthy deviant- you are- fucking your own- drugged out junkie baby brother.”

"If you want me to continue I strongly encourage you to shut up," growled Mycroft, even as he stung from the truth of it. 

Sherlock just laughed, ugly and wicked, “You’ll continue, because you know if I don’t get to feel your cock throb in my arse, I’ll just take my stash and go. Earned myself an eight ball last night.” 

He thrust back against Mycroft, trying to goad him into something rough and brutal. He panted against the sheets, “You fuck me hard enough, you might get me to shut up, brother mine.”

Growling low in his chest, Mycroft pinned him to the bed and plowed into him, knowing it was what Sherlock wanted, for once just giving into instinct.

Sherlock laughed again, but this time it was victorious. “Much- better!” He spoke between short gasps, having trouble with full sentences. Mycroft was relentless, and Sherlock loved it. He knew Mycroft could be filled with fury and rage and passion, and he wanted all of it, he wanted to see his brother crumble to his sentiment, his own emotions, the very things he taunted Sherlock about. “That- all you- can do? Desk work’s- making you- soft.”

Mycroft knelt back, pulling Sherlock with him into his lap, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking him off. 

Growling at the change in position, Sherlock set about fucking himself as hard and deep on Mycroft’s cock as he could manage. He wanted to be sore, bruised, _brutalised_ at Mycroft’s hand; he knew it was what he deserved; it was half the reason he’d come tonight. He needed to feel something, and pain was the best option.

God, this boy was _wicked._ He twisted his wrist, feeling Sherlock squeeze around him. Without thought he dropped his head and bit down on a bony shoulder, marking him.

“More,” Sherlock demanded with moan, “Make me bleed.”

Mycroft squeezed his hip, bruising, pushing him back onto his stomach to chase his own orgasm. 

As he fell forward, Sherlock let one arm twist behind him, so that his wrist was at his back, and gripped his own curls tight with the other, pulling to increase the pain and pleasure coursing through him.

Knowing what he wanted, Mycroft twisted his arm, giving a few more thrusts before filling the condom.

Sherlock cried out, pressing back against Mycroft, twisting both his arms to maximize the assault. As he felt Mycroft throb inside him, releasing his own sinful gratification into Sherlock with doubtless ire, Sherlock came, his cock trapped between his abdomen and the fine sheets beneath him.

Mycroft panted, holding him pinned there for a few long moments before carefully pulling out and going to the bathroom to get a rag to clean them up. 

Not willing to reveal his hiding spot, Sherlock jumped up as soon as Mycroft left to fulfill his end of the deal. He kept his other bargaining elements hidden, and returned to the bed with his small box, the one that used to hold his favorite rocks when he was eight. Right up until Mycroft had given him a geology book, to show him what special rocks actually looked like. He’d dumped the lot of them in the pond out back, and hadn’t filled it again until he was sixteen. 

Tonight it held all of his current stash; he wasn’t lying to Mycroft about that. There were two grams of moderately pure cocaine, an eight ball, his razor blade, a glass syringe and a vial of solution. He opened it and fanned it out, for maximum impact. So that Mycroft knew what he’d actually given up for this one night.

Mycroft stepped back out and froze in place. "Thank you, Sherlock," he said quietly, collecting the stash from him. He'd have been Anthea dispose of it.

“I’m sleeping in your bed tonight.”

"All right." He took the box and set it aside, wiping Sherlock up gently and planting a kiss on his temple.

The top sheet was deposited onto the floor ungraciously as Sherlock burrowed himself in the covers. He glared at Mycroft. “I don’t know why you pretend to like me. No one else does.” But as Mycroft sighed and turned to toss the sheet in the hamper, Sherlock touched the spot he kissed and brought his fingers to his lips for just a moment, before tugging a down pillow over his head.

Mycroft pulled on pyjamas and got in, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He heard Sherlock’s breath slowing and knew when he’d fallen asleep. Two days wasn’t much time, at least he could perhaps get some food into him. He glanced over and a dark curl peeking from under the pillow and wondered where he’d gone wrong, why Sherlock sought to punish him this way, if he could have done something different. Wondering if it was all his fault.

-o- 

Sherlock woke to find the bed empty. He yawned and stretched, then felt the sting of Mycroft’s bite on his shoulder. He wiggled a bit, happy to feel the burn in his arse too. He knew it was wrong in some sort of pedestrian way, but from the time he’d seen Mycroft naked, when he was fifteen and Mycroft was home from uni, he’d craved his big brother and his fantastic cock. He licked his lips at last night’s memory and thought on how he could elicit more from his reluctant partner in the next day and a half.

He heard the water start in the en suite, and grinned. He climbed out of bed, and sauntered into the bathroom, slipping in behind Mycroft in the shower. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, letting one hand slip down to fondle him.

“Good morning,” he purred.

Mycroft closed his eyes against the touch. “Morning.”

Sherlock smiled wickedly against Mycroft’s back as he accepted Sherlock’s advances. He slowly began to use the soap dripping down Mycroft’s chest to stroke him, and nuzzled his own growing cock into the cleft of Mycroft’s arse.

Mycroft’s breath caught. He found himself leaning forward, bracing himself against the title, encouraging him to explore more.

Sherlock hummed against his shoulder approvingly. “I’ve wanted you for ages,” he murmured. “Such a thick cock, a nice _pert_ bottom,” Sherlock gave his arse a small smack, “You’re bloody fucking gorgeous.”

A moan escaped his lips. “Sherlock,” he said quietly, somewhere between begging and commanding.

“That’s right,” Sherlock encouraged, rolling his hips against Mycroft, letting his cock slide deeper between the roundness of his arse and stroking Mycroft’s cock with a steady hand, now that he knew Mycroft would let him. He leaned to whisper hotly into Mycroft’s ear, “You like just as much as I do. Is it because you want to punish me? Is it the taboo? Tell me, brother dearest, what is it?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know.” He craved it. Had craved Sherlock for far longer than he’d like to admit.

“You better come up with a better answer than that,” Sherlock threatened mildly, then nipped at Mycroft’s neck, leaving nice red blooms on the pale skin. He wrapped his free arm around Mycroft’s waist, holding him tight, and rutted against him with fervor. He let his own movements guide Mycroft’s cock through his fist. He tightened his grip, “Fuck Mycroft, can you come for me? Think about how tight I was when you fucked me last night, how well I can take it. Just for you, Mycroft; that was all for you.”

“God, Sherlock,” muttered Mycroft, letting the pleasure flow through his body. He was getting dangerously close to sentiment.

Sherlock rocked against faster, but kept talking, his voice a low growl in Mycroft’s ear. “Do you like that? Knowing that you were the first? No one else has ever fucked me, My, not like that.” His fingers dug into Mycroft’s side, and his teeth settled on Mycroft’s shoulder, scraping against the skin.

Mycroft gasped. “No one?”

“Not like that,” Sherlock licked up the shell of his ear, “Saved that just for you.”

“I’ve wanted you,” admitted Mycroft, voice cracking just a bit. “You know that, of course.”

Sherlock chuckled, but his breath caught. “How could- how could we not? Christ- I’m - I’m almost-” Sherlock cut himself off, holding Mycroft tighter.

“Come, please, Sherlock.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock gasped, coming in spurts onto the small of Mycroft’s back and the top of his arse. As his orgasm ebbed, he spun Mycroft around, going down on his knees, and took Mycroft in his mouth. With a few deft bobs, he was taking the whole of Mycroft’s impressive size.

Mycroft nearly slipped in the shower as he tried to brace himself. “Bloody hell,” he swore.

Sherlock groaned around his cock as it slipped back down into his throat. He looked up at Mycroft, through the water droplets on his eyelashes, and placed his hands on Mycroft’s arse, encouraging him to fuck his throat harder and faster. 

“Christ.” Mycroft leaned forward, bracing himself against the walls as he thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, looking down at this gorgeous supplicant.

Sherlock kept his eyes on Mycroft, letting him use him like Sherlock was meant to be used. He loved Mycroft, in so many ways he was told he shouldn’t, but he didn’t know how else to tell him, and so instead, he did what he did best. He swallowed around Mycroft’s cock, teasing, coaxing the orgasm from him.

Mycroft’s eyes fell shut, that wicked mouth was far too much. He tangled one hand in the soaked curls and came down his throat with a loud moan.

Sherlock swallowed, and swallowed again, taking all of Mycroft down. He gave him small licks until Mycroft jerked back from the sensitivity. He looked up at Mycroft again, licking his lips. 

“Sorry. That wasn’t a new one for me. But I think that rather worked in your favour, don’t you?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft tugged Sherlock to his feet and snogged him thoroughly, pressing him against the far wall of the shower.

Sherlock felt weak kneed under Mycroft’s talents, and threw an arm around his back and his neck for support. He’d wanted Mycroft for so long, and he never thought he’d get him this enthusiastically. He was prepared for a quick pity fuck, brutal and cruel, and to never speak of it again. But this? This was heaven, if he believed in such a thing. 

Mycroft found himself no longer caring if this was wrong. Here, in the sanctity of his house, nobody could judge him for his action, for the way they felt about each other. Because he was just as certain that Sherlock felt the same deep well of emotion, even if he had no idea how to express it.

The water began to cool, and Sherlock finally took a moment to break away. “I know you have nothing to worry about, but the cold will do my cock no favours. Bed?”

"For a bit. How are you feeling?" Mycroft shut the water off and wrapped him in a towel. 

“Tired. Hungry. Cold.” Sherlock answered bluntly. 

“Let’s get you downstairs and I’ll find something good for breakfast.”

Sherlock dropped the towel on the floor, and grabbed Mycroft’s dressing gown from its hook. He draped it around himself. “That’s better.” He snuggled down into it, inhaling deeply. “Smells like you.”

Mycroft leaned in and stole a kiss before wrapping a towel around his own waist and leading him downstairs.


	2. Inadequate

The kitchen was just as cold as the rest of the house, and Sherlock curled up into a little ball in the chair, letting the dressing gown cover the whole of his body, save his head. “Tea?” he asked, shaking. 

Mycroft hurried to put the kettle on, making some toast as well.

When Mycroft finally placed the tea in front of him, he cupped the mug in his hands, letting the heat warm him. He took small sips, feeling it warm him from the inside as well. It took a few more minutes before his teeth stopped chattering.

“See if you can keep this down,” said Mycroft, setting the toast in front of him.

Sherlock nodded, failing to deliver any of his usual snark, but didn’t touch the toast until the tea was gone. He started to nibble at the bread, then devoured both pieces as he realised how hungry he was. “Thank you,” he muttered, looking down.

“You’re welcome. Would you like more?”

Sherlock nodded, feeling low, but still hungry. He stood up sluggishly, “I can do it, you don’t have to.”

"I don't mind," said Mycroft, steering him back to his seat. 

Sherlock hated this part; the crash. He felt slow, his brain was dull, and his demons came to roost in his chest, cackling reminders of how pathetic he was. He huddled back into the dressing gown, pulling it around himself, trying to cocoon himself in the imitation of Mycroft’s warmth.

Mycroft fixed him a heartier breakfast and more tea, he carried it to the den and put it on the side table, then went back and picked up Sherlock, holding him against his chest until they reached the sofa, then sitting, settling him into his lap and helping feed him.

His brain sneered at him, told Sherlock that he was weak, sentimental, useless. But Mycroft had never cared what anyone else had thought about him, himself included. He’d hated Mycroft for so long before he understood; that it wasn’t that Mycroft was trying to one up him or trying to show off, but that Mycroft loved him too, want to share, wanted to encourage. But by the time he’d realised it, he’d pushed Mycroft far. Too far, he’d thought.

But maybe not.

Mycroft kissed his temple again as Sherlock finished, holding him gently. He was hungry himself, but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, didn’t want him to grow cold. He didn’t know how to fix this thing between them, but he was going to enjoy these next few days as much as he could.

Sherlock finished the second breakfast Mycroft had made him, and yawned. He buried himself into Mycroft’s chest, pulling Mycroft’s arm down overtop of him and closed his eyes.

Mycroft smiled softly and held him, feeling Sherlock start to fall asleep. His own stomach rumbled quite suddenly.

Sherlock sat up, eyes wide. He was an idiot, how could he not think of Mycroft? This is why he needed the drugs, he was dull, he was worthless like this. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You go eat. I’ll just- just go upstairs and sleep there.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” Mycroft shifted him onto the sofa. “I’ll go fix myself something small, you just make yourself comfortable.

As soon as Mycroft left, Sherlock climbed on the armchair, where he could sit, alone. If he was alone, he wouldn’t make Mycroft suffer. He wouldn’t be stupid if he could just be by himself. He smelled the scent of Mycroft, and it only further highlighted how inadequate he was in comparison. He shrugged off the dressing gown, throwing it across the room, and curled into the chair, shaking as he fell asleep.   

Mycroft saw him shivering in the chair when he returned. Sighing, he set his plate aside, picked up the robe and then Sherlock, and settled his little brother on the sofa with his head in his lap, stroking fingers through his hair.

When Sherlock woke later, he bolted up and away from Mycroft. “No!” he shouted, shaking the robe off him again. “I can’t! Not like this. I’m no good like this,” Sherlock muttered, pacing the room, hands waving frantically. “I can’t. I can’t,” he kept repeating, tugging at his hair, then picking up a trinket. He tossed it between his hands until he fumbled, dropping it. He screamed in frustration, and picked up a vase, shattering it on the ground.

Mycroft smoothly wrapped his arms around him, pinning him. “It’s okay Sherlock. It’s the drugs, it’s not you.”

“No! It’s me that’s worthless! The drugs clear my mind! Make me sharp! I’m nothing by myself!” Sherlock thrashed in Mycroft’s arms, but he was weak and exhausted, and he couldn’t escape Mycroft’s hold. He slumped, boneless. 

“You don’t need them,” said Mycroft, trying to ignore the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“How would you know?” Sherlock tried to sound bitter, but instead just sounded tired, “You already have everything. You are everything.” As he’d calmed down, Mycroft’s grip lessened and Sherlock shrugged out of his arms. “It was a mistake to come here,” he said despondently, walking to the stairs. 

“No it wasn’t,” called Mycroft after him, feeling despondent himself.

Sherlock trudged up the stairs and disappeared into the guest bedroom. He spoke just loud enough to be heard, “I’ll keep my end of the deal; I’ll stay in here, out of your way, until tomorrow night.”

“You can stay longer,” called Mycroft after him, before sitting down and putting his head in hands.

-o-

Sherlock slept for the better part of the day, and woke up with a scowl. He was still naked, and still cold, and left the room in search of something to wear. He started in Mycroft’s bedroom, but couldn’t find his clothes from last night. “Damnit Mycroft,” his voice boomed through the flat, “Where are my clothes? You can’t keep me trapped here by stealing them, I’ll leave here tomorrow naked if I have to!” 

“I washed them,” said Mycroft, resignation in his voice as he brought the clothes up to him, along with some other fresh ones.

Sherlock looked at the clean clothes with disgust, “I can’t sleep rough in clean clothes; they’d try to mug me, then beat me when they can’t find cash. They’ll do for now, though.” He took the clothes from Mycroft. He saw Mycroft’s defeated look, and remembered the morning with humiliation burning up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“I apologise for my pitiful behaviour this morning,” he offered hatefully. “It’s why I so despise sobering up, so to speak.”

“Your behavior was fine this morning,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mind any of it.” He bowed his head. “I’ll leave you be,” he said, never changing his tone.

Sherlock’s features softened slightly. He pulled on his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers steepled below his chin. Mycroft was puzzling, and he hated that. If he didn’t understand Mycroft, it meant there was something that Mycroft knew that he didn’t, and it meant that Mycroft was still, and would always be, smarter than him. 

He still had a whole day to go; and he was already restless, bouncy and bored. He jumped up, and headed to the library. “Mycroft!” he hollered, “I’m bored!”

“I’ve got some puzzles you can work on.” This much he’d been prepared for. He grabbed some files. “Here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sneered, “Government work, how tedious.” He took the files anyway and flipped open the first the one. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Unsolved international espionage from the Second World War.”

He caught his excitement, and tried to deaden his tone, “I suppose that will have to suffice for now.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll bring you some more tea.”

Sherlock delved into the files, coming up occasionally to sips of tea, and to make the occasional snide comment regarding the intelligence of British Government. He solved three, and declared another needed more evidence, something that would have to wait until he could leave the house. 

The library grew dark, and when Sherlock finally looked up, he saw Mycroft, reading in his chair, the dimness of dusk settling in the window behind him, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp beside him. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and his curl had fallen down his forehead. The waistcoat fit him perfectly, outlining the leaner form he’d acquired since sixth form. Sherlock licked his lips. 

He crawled over to Mycroft on his knees, and slipped the book out of his hand, setting it on the side table, then uncrossing Mycroft’s legs. 

He glanced up at his brother through his eyelashes as he knelt between his knees. “Mycroft,” he hummed, “I’m still bored.”

“Would you like to entertain yourself with me?”

Sherlock took the invitation to run his palms up the insides of Mycroft’s thighs, then unbuttoned the waistcoat with long fingers. He let his fingers dance back down Mycroft’s stomach, to the button on Mycroft’s trousers. “I would. Do you want me to?”

“It’s acceptable.” Mycroft gave him a sad smile, running fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Time is short, after all.”

Sherlock pulled back with a smirk, “Just acceptable?”

Mycroft guided his head forward again. “I do believe you said that you wished to choke on my cock?”

“I do. Very much so. But I want to hear you ask for it,” Sherlock insisted huskily.

“Mm,” Mycroft loosened his belt. “I would like you to show me again your excellent mouth.”

Sherlock licked his lips again as Mycroft untucked himself from his trousers. He wasn’t quite hard yet, but Sherlock relished the challenge. Sherlock started slowly, with soft little licks at the base of his cock, tracing his way up to the tip, then licking slowly around the rim of foreskin before enveloping the head of Mycroft’s cock. He kept it up, teasing and sucking gently as Mycroft filled out. 

Mycroft relaxed against the chair, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s hair as he watched him. “Feels good,” he murmured.

Sherlock picked up his pace; good wasn’t enough. He teased up the length of Mycroft’s cock with the width of his tongue, hollowing out his cheeks as he went. He bobbed down, hands on Mycroft’s thighs, slowly building up until he could feel the bulge of Mycroft’s head slide down into his throat, and he groaned wantonly around it. 

Mycroft let out a moan, hand tightening in Sherlock’s hair. God help him, he loved this.

Sherlock put his hand atop Mycroft’s guiding him to push down; he wanted to be hoarse in the morning. 

Growling, Mycroft pushed his head down, using his mouth. Knowing this was what Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock gagged as Mycroft finally took hold, and hummed with pleasure as Mycroft didn’t relent, making Sherlock recover from the reflex with no relief. Knowing now that Mycroft would set the pace, Sherlock brought his hands down to his slacks, pulling out his own cock, hard and leaking. 

Mycroft hummed, pleased, watching Sherlock stroke himself. He wondered if he could convince him to sleep with him again.

The pace Mycroft set told Sherlock that quick gratification wasn’t the goal here. He let his jaw slack entirely, no longer trying for the quickest route to orgasm, and only half heartedly stroked himself. If Mycroft wanted this to last, he’d make it last.

Mycroft used him, part of him hating himself for what he did, but enjoying it far too much to stop.

Sherlock lost himself to the sensation, eyes half lidded, spit leaking down his chin, his mind fogged and complacent. His skull stung blissfully where Mycroft used his curls as leverage to plunge his cock down Sherlock’s throat. He gave up on himself, too clouded to care about anything other than Mycroft. 

Mycroft knew Sherlock was lost in the moment. He allowed himself to do the same, simply enjoying the pleasure of the mouth drooling around his cock. He sped up after a few minutes. “Shall I come down your throat or on your face?”

Sherlock gave a muffled response, then patted Mycroft on the chest; gesturing for him to decide. Sherlock wanted Mycroft, and nothing more at the moment. He’d take him in any way he could. He opened his eyes fully, his glassy eyes watching Mycroft’s expression, the way he licked his lips and narrowed his eyes as he watched Sherlock.

Breath catching, Mycroft came almost suddenly, mostly coming down his throat, but pulling out to splatter his face towards the end, not wanting to choke him completely.

Sherlock swallowed, not once taking his eyes off Mycroft’s face. Watching the rush of pleasure overtake him; Sherlock thought it might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How many more times might he get to see that before Mycroft realised that he was far too good for Sherlock?

Mycroft opened his eyes as he came down from the high of his orgasm. He looked down at Sherlock, at the mess he’d made. Gorgeous. He leaned down to kiss him and tug him into his lap, wrapping one hand around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock gasped and stuttered as Mycroft stroked him, and he leaned back down to kiss him again, breathless and messy. Sherlock’s face was still covered in a few streaks of come, and Sherlock licked what had transferred to Mycroft’s chin and lips in the process. He rolled his hips in time with Mycroft’s hand, and whimpered against Mycroft’s lips. “Please, My, I want- fuck me again before I go? Please?”

“I will. I promise. I still say you can stay longer. I won’t kick you out.”

The kisses grew increasingly needy, and Sherlock embraced Mycroft, fingers through his short ginger hair, another hand feeling the way Mycroft’s muscles moved under his skin. Sherlock writhed on Mycroft’s lap, coming so close. 

“Do you- why-” Sherlock could barely speak, but managed to beg, “Want me.”

“Because I do. Because you always feel like a miracle.”

The praise, the kindness of Mycroft’s words flowed through him. With a cry, Sherlock came, over Mycroft’s fist and onto his shirt. He collapsed onto Mycroft, burying his face into Mycroft’s neck, and clinged to him as a man drowning. 

Tears in his eyes all over again, Mycroft held him tightly, rocking slightly, feeling the too thin frame under his hands.

As Sherlock came back to himself, he loosened his grip on Mycroft, but didn’t let go completely. His breath returned to normal, and he asked softly, “Take me to bed?”

“Okay.” Mycroft picked him up and carried him upstairs.

Mycroft set him gently in bed, and Sherlock caught his arm, “Stay with me?”

“Okay. Let me just get these clothes off, okay?”

The room didn’t feel as cool anymore, and Sherlock pulled just the sheet over himself as he curled towards where Mycroft would lay. He knew the cocaine comedown had a great deal to do with his expression of sentiment, but he couldn’t lie to himself and deny that the sentiment hadn’t been there for far too long. He’d spent ages trying to purge it from his system, and in the process of doing so, found himself in the throes of the very emotion which had led him here to begin with.

Mycroft folded him into his arms as he settled into bed. He was scared for Sherlock, but knew he was stubborn, that he’d stay only as long as he’d promised

For tonight, for this short stay, Sherlock would allow himself to indulge. To be loved, as though he deserved it. Safe in his brother’s arms, he fell to sleep.


	3. How to Be Anything Else

Mycroft woke early, but he didn’t dare move, Sherlock seemed to still be asleep, breathing steadily against his chest. He locked this memory into his own mind palace, along with a few other glimpses of this version of Sherlock.

By the time he woke, Sherlock could tell Mycroft had been awake for some time, afraid to disturb him. Remembering his mistake from the morning before, he pulled away, suggesting instead, “You should eat.”

“So should you,” said Mycroft, stretching.

“You first,” Sherlock insisted. “I’ll shower,” he said, making an excuse. 

“Okay. I’ll make enough for both of us. And tea.”

Sherlock watched Mycroft leave the room, then headed to the shower, hoping to avoid the morning self loathing cycle he often fell into. He cleaned himself thoroughly, optimistically perhaps, and wrapped himself again in Mycroft’s dressing gown before going down to the kitchen.

Mycroft gave him a small smile and set down a mug of tea for him as he finished making their breakfast. “Was there any particular way you wanted to spend today?”

Sherlock, satisfied that he hadn’t done anything wrong yet, answered factually, “At the end of your cock.”

“Mmm, could be worse I suppose.”

Breakfast was another full meal, but Sherlock wasn’t nearly as hungry today. He ate half, then spoke again. “The mood swings should be better today, but I’m going to want to use. You’ll have to keep me busy.”

“Come to the bedroom.” Mycroft offered his hand.

Sherlock looked at the outstretched hand like he couldn’t quite believe it, and took it gingerly, following Mycroft up the stairs. The connection between them felt both foreign and familiar at the same time. 

Mycroft lay him in the middle of the large bed, but instead of preparing and taking him, he began working on his back, massaging out stiffness and noting the new tiny scars Sherlock wore, though he made no comment on them.

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock breathed out, melting under Mycroft’s touch. Swathes of tension unfolded from his body, his muscles unravelled, leaving him loose and unwound. It was spectacular. He’d never been touched like this before. He let out small whimpers and whines of relief.

Mycroft’s heart ached as he worked him over. He knew Sherlock couldn’t abide being touched by most, and given the company he kept, that wasn’t particularly surprising. He was glad to see him unwind underneath him.

After quite some time, Sherlock had lost track of exactly how long, Mycroft worked his way lower, to his legs, his calves. Sherlock was naught but skin and muscle, and Mycroft was careful not to press too hard. Sherlock sighed, voice silken with bliss, “How d’you know this? To touch people like this?” 

“It just seemed like a good skill to pick up, though I rarely practice it.”

The chemistry of it, the biology, Sherlock supposed was simple enough to understand. It had never occurred to him, however, to indulge in this sort of thing. Touch for the sake of touch seemed such an unknown concept; no one he’d ever been with before had done such a thing, and he was quite certain it wouldn’t have occurred to him to try it first. 

As Mycroft continued his practiced movements, Sherlock felt a growing discomfort. “One- one mo-” Sherlock uttered, then lifted his hips to readjust himself. Apparently deep relaxation had other effects as well. 

Mycroft chuckled. “That can happen.” He planted a soft kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I will never understand how you haven’t suitors by the dozens lined up outside your doors,” Sherlock murmured against the pillow.

“Most don’t understand me. Or can’t tolerate my hours and my secrets,” said Mycroft quietly

“Fools, then, the lot of them.” Sherlock muttered. “I’d have you, if I came even close to deserving you.”

“I’d be happy to have you,” admitted Mycroft.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied defeated, “But only. _If_ I’m clean, _if_ I go to class, _if_ I’m an upstanding citizen. Only _if_ I was different enough to deserve you. As it is, I’m not.”

“Out of that list, I would trade all of them for you to be clean.”

Sherlock sighed, “Exactly. But I’ll still have you for today, I suppose.”

“I do wish you’d stay.”

“I could never be want you wanted me to be,” Sherlock’s voice grew bitter, “And the pressure of trying to be so? It’s half the reason I’m not.”

“I’m sorry you think so of me.”

“It’s not your fault I’m stupid. Sure, better than that lot,” Sherlock gestured out the window, “But nothing compared to you. The cocaine gets me close enough to not care about the difference.”

“It’s my fault,” said Mycroft quietly. “I pushed you too hard.”

“It’s immaterial now,” Sherlock dismissed. “Let’s forget about it. As you said, time is short.”

Mycroft stretched out next to him, stroking his back gently.

Sherlock slid up to his side, and sprawled himself over half of Mycroft’s body, settling his head on Mycroft’s chest. “Keep touching me,” he ordered mildly. “I like that.” 

There were a few moments of silence.

“From you, anyways,” Sherlock amended.

Mycroft smiled softly, cuddled him, and continued to touch him.

As Mycroft continued to trace fingertips down his back, Sherlock nuzzled against his chest, playing with the ginger curls. He started peppering kisses on the freckled skin. 

Mycroft hummed, liking the feeling of it. He was rarely touched himself.

When Mycroft hummed, it sent vibrations through his chest against Sherlock’s lips. It tingled, and he wanted more. His hands drifted, circling Mycroft’s nipple to see his reaction.

Mycroft moaned softly, fingers gripping Sherlock’s hip.

Pleased by the response, Sherlock slouched down, leading the kisses down his other side, until he could give tender licks to Mycroft’s other nipple, drawing his eyes up to watch Mycroft. He wanted to see the look on his face, see what he could make Mycroft do, feel, want.

Watching him, Mycroft smiled softly, encouraging him.

Still watching, Sherlock took the nub between his teeth, with the smallest of pressure. 

“Good,” whispered Mycroft, running fingers through his hair.

He bit harder, rolling the other with his finger, then without letting go, slid over, straddling Mycroft. He teased harder, then switched, nipping and licking back and forth. 

Mycroft moaned, his other hand reached back to hold onto the headboard.

Sherlock rolled his hips against Mycroft, and moved his lips to his neck, bracing himself with one hand near Mycroft’s head. He bit at Mycroft’s neck, leaving marks; something for Mycroft to remember him by when he fell back, weak and worthless. 

Eyes closing, Mycroft made small sounds of pleasure.

Not being watched let Sherlock explore the whole of Mycroft. He let his fingers trace the straight lines, the softness of his belly where he used to carry more weight. The constellation of freckles on his shoulders, the delicate curls on his chest. He watched the gooseflesh rise as his lips ghosted over the planes of Mycroft’s body. He circled around Mycroft’s navel with his tongue, feeling Mycroft’s hardness jut into his neck. 

For the first time in quite a while, Mycroft relaxed, letting Sherlock do as he would. Trusting him.

The boy explored each inch of him, moving onto his arms, kissing the tips of each finger, then sucking them into his mouth one by one, feeling how deep they went his his mouth, teasing at the webbing between them, feeling the ridges of his skin, trying to memorize his fingerprints from the touch of his tongue alone. He traced the lines of Mycroft’s palms, and pressed his lips against the pulse in his wrist, feeling the beat of Mycroft’s heart against the heat of his mouth. 

Moaning again, Mycroft shifted his hips, his growing erection wanting attention.

A smile, wicked and devious, broke out across Sherlock’s face. He sidled down Mycroft’s legs, bending down, pressing wet kisses along the line of Mycroft’s pants, then skipped down, starting on his thighs. He found a birthmark on inside of Mycroft’s thigh he’d never seen before, and if he looked just right, it was in the shape of a Mandelbrot fractal. He pressed his lips to it, playing with it, tasting it. He slid between Mycroft’s legs, lifting them up, pressing wet kisses to Mycroft’s knees, then sprawling wet, bruising bites up Mycroft’s inner thighs. 

Groaning, Mycroft’s other hand joined the first at the headboard, gripping it, hips rocking with unconscious desire.

Watching Mycroft come undone left a pool of desire low in his belly, and Sherlock resolutely ignored it. He wanted more of Mycroft; wanted to see him whimper, want him to be weak and break into a million pieces beneath him. He streaked long stripes to trace the juncture of his thigh to his pelvis, then hovered over Mycroft’s cock, thick and looking awkwardly trapped in his pants. He nudged at it, mouthing over it, leaving his pants wet and clinging to his cock. 

“God, more, please,” moaned Mycroft, arching his hips and resisting the urge to shove down his pants. Somehow this felt filthier than anything else they’d done.

A low chuckle in his throat, Sherlock shuffled down further, bringing up each leg, and started in at his ankles, letting his long fingers follow the hills of his calves, and pinning his legs back to see if the junctures behind his knees were as sensitive as the junctures of his inner elbows. He looked down, the way Mycroft was bent nearly in half, and commanded in almost a whisper, “Hold up your legs for me.”

Mycroft obeyed, nearly panting as Sherlock continued to touch him.

Sherlock bent low, kissing wet streaks up just below the seams of his pants; the lingering taste of rich soaps and salty sweat upon his lips. He felt more than saw the way Mycroft was quivering under his touch, and he reached up to lightly ghost his fingers over Mycroft’s sides again, to feel the gooseflesh rise under his own tongue. As he felt Mycroft struggle just a bit to keep himself folded, Sherlock rose up on his knees, reaching down to pull Mycroft’s pants over his hips, leaving them trapped over his thighs. Like this, Mycroft was beautiful exposed, vulnerable, and Sherlock gave a small, “Oh.”

Mycroft’s eyes slitted open, watching Sherlock, cock jutting up hard and free. He wanted Sherlock to take him to pin him down and use him. He wondered if he’d do that, or drop his head and tongue him open.

He started slow, teasing with his tongue around anything that Mycroft might have actually wanted. The curve of his arse, where his thigh and pelvis joined, the cleft of his arse, stopping short of his tight, tense hole. Sherlock could tell how anxious Mycroft was with Sherlock’s touches, not knowing what he’d do or how he’d do it. He huffed hot, moist breaths over his bollocks, then tugged up Mycroft’s pants a bit farther, trapping his calves instead, making it easier to maneuver in, to deliver the same, delicate, taunting treatments to Mycroft’s vast cock, watching it twitch and jump underneath him. 

Sherlock had never felt quite so powerful as he did right then, watching Mycroft’s body practically sing beneath him. 

Mycroft’s eyes shut. He moaned beneath him, tense and loose all at once.

Taking Mycroft’s bollocks in hand, Sherlock massaged them slowly, then took one after the other in his mouth, laving around the testicle, sucking tenderly, letting one finger drift downwards to brush softly over Mycroft’s hole, easily accessible in this position, near begging to be teased. His dry finger circled the pucker, then letting Mycroft’s bollocks slip from between his lips, his moved down, achingly slow, with wet, sloppy kisses. Finally, he pulled Mycroft’s arse cheeks carefully apart, giving him perfect access. With just the very tip of his tongue, he traced up the cleft to the tight hole, with soft kitten licks, offering the sweetest torment.

“Ah, ah,” groaned Mycroft. He wondered if he’d come untouched. “Good, so good,” he groaned, holding himself in place for him.

Though the he’d just said ‘good,’ Sherlock could hear the neediness in his voice, and knew that Mycroft was feeling far beyond good. His own cock throbbed; but it was inconsequential, at least for now. He built up a bit of saliva on his tongue, and with precise, thoughtful movements, opened Mycroft up, teasing just inside, needed to hear more of Mycroft’s wanton distress before moving on.

Mycroft found himself babbling with need, voice cracking under the wickedness of Sherlock’s tongue. He could hear himself, but was unable to stop.

Victorious, Sherlock continued his administrations for a while longer, listening to his brother, the decrier of all sentiment and bodily desires, fall hard to the throes of pleasure. Satisfied, Sherlock pulled back, and pushed Mycroft’s legs back, but grasped his cock, pulling it down between his legs for Sherlock’s better reach. He gave Mycroft’s cock quick, wet, sloppy attentions; nothing so rhythmic as to cause him to come, but enough for Sherlock. Meticulously, he arranged so that his own legs pressed down on Mycroft’s, but held Mycroft’s cock perfectly so that he could begin the slow slide, feel Mycroft both opening him up, the pain and burn showing on Sherlock’s face as ecstasy. Additionally, he had the added bonus of being in completely control, Mycroft near helpless, folded in half as Sherlock sank down on his cock.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft moaned, calling on his name like calling out to an ancient deity.

The ways his name fell from Mycroft’s lips was like heaven, if such a thing existed, No one, not once, not ever, had called on him like that; like he was something to be worshiped. It spurned him on, thrusting down hard on Mycroft, feeling the burn inside him turn to heat, to fire, like a sacrifice was being burned at an alter all for him, and the flames licked at every nerve, bringing rapture and life. 

Mycroft cried out, shaking underneath him, so very close to coming.

Sherlock placed one hand on Mycroft’s hamstring, pushing him down and tilting him ever so perfect to hit just right inside Sherlock, and then with the other hand, took himself, stroking hard, wanting to cover Mycroft with his come, to claim him. 

Mycroft broke first, crying out all over again, nearly passing out from the overwhelming pleasure.

Feeling Mycroft crumbled beneath him was lovely, but the look on his face as he did so was pure artwork; Sherlock was sure that look needed to be captured; he wondered if Mycroft might allow a photographer in the room with them next time. But the thought was fleeting, as the throbbing of Mycroft coming, and coming deep inside him, filling him, not a condom, but filling _Sherlock_ , becoming a part of him, sent Sherlock over the edge, and he fucked down hard onto Mycroft, stroking harder until he burst out over Mycroft, splashing over his chest and up to his neck. 

Lost in bliss, Mycroft was only vaguely aware of the heat of Sherlock’s come striking his skin. He gave a small moan of pleasure, aching from the way he was being pinned.

Sherlock pulled out, and gave each of Mycroft’s thighs deep, soothing attention before laying them back down on the bed. He dipped down, lapping his mess off Mycroft’s chest, humming contently.

Mycroft wrapped him in his arms around the frail young man and held him close, eyes still closed.

The room cooled around Sherlock and he felt the chills coming on again. He leaned back to pull the sheets and duvet around them, then collapsing into Mycroft’s arms again, and pretending, for just a moment, that this could be something he could come home to every day. Sherlock tried to shift off him, worried that he might be too heavy on top, but Mycroft refused to let him go.

Mycroft breathed in the scent of him, rubbing his back slowly, trying to cling to this, if only for a little while. Slowly, the warmth of the duvet and the slow rhythmic rise of Mycroft’s chest sent Sherlock to sleep.

-o-

Mycroft woke first, feeling Sherlock still asleep in his arms. Loath to move, he simply waited, still holding him.

In his arms, Sherlock began to twitch, his body acting on a dream that clearly put him ill at ease. He tried to wrestle from Mycroft’s grip, eyes closed, still fighting his own subconscious. He muttered, all syllables, nothing that Mycroft could decipher.

“Sherlock,” muttered Mycroft quietly, trying to wake him.

His arms flailed and his syllables lapsed into the occasional words, _No_!, _Haven’t_!, _Let go_! Finally, he stopped thrashing, and for a few seconds all was calm. 

Without notice, he abruptly let out an ear piercing shriek and rolled in on himself, screaming all the while. 

“Christ.” muttered Mycroft. His hands fluttered uselessly for a moment before he shifted to sit at his head, running fingers through his hair and half singing one of his favorite pirate shanties from when he was a little boy.

It took a minute or two before Sherlock stopped letting out unearthly screams, and another ten before he stopped whimpering. He unfurled, some of the tension leaving his taut muscles. 

Mycroft was shaking, wondering what he’d been through, but he kept his up steady fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Slowly, Sherlock began to shuffle about, and soon Mycroft heard a soft, “Keep doing that.”

“Okay.” Mycroft kept it up.

“Feels good,” Sherlock muttered, “Slept terribly. Waste of time.”

“You’re okay though.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I love you.” Mycroft let the words slip out.

Sherlock smiled softly against the pillow, “But why should that disrupt my sleep? If anything, genuine affections should improve my sleep. Unless you are all words?”

“Far from it.” Mycroft shifted and spooned around him, kissing his neck and shoulders.

Sherlock was still concerned. “Did something happen while I slept? You are behaving oddly.”

“Just a nightmare, that’s all.”

Sherlock frowned, and fisted his hands against his torso. “I apologise for anything I might have said or done,” his lips were pursed and his voice quiet.

"You don't have to."

“It’s bad enough that the nightmares exist. It’s intolerable that they should escaped the confines of my own head.” Sherlock rolled away from Mycroft and sat up on the bed. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then stood. “I should dress.”

“If that’s what you feel you must do.”

Sherlock pulled on the clothes he’d worn the day before, and walked wordlessly out of the room. He found his way to the library, and curled up on the same chair he had yesterday. He felt the walls coming back up; how far away Mycroft suddenly seemed in the wake of his nightmares. He was nothing in comparison.

Mycroft lay back in the bed, still naked, and stared at the ceiling.

The longer Mycroft stayed upstairs, the deeper the hole in Sherlock’s chest grew. The louder the voices in his mind palace echoed all the words he’d heard before. _Useless, freak, fuck up, slut, pathetic, wanker, monster_. 

Finally, Mycroft got up and dressed, coming downstairs to find Sherlock curled up in the study. Wordlessly, he fixed them both tea and brought him a cup.

Sherlock pushed it away from him; the china tea cup was too good for him. The tea inside it was too good for him. How Mycroft must pity him, to tell him such lies about loving him and wanting him. There were no way they couldn’t be lies. How could he not have seen through that? He cursed himself; he was just so dull without the cocaine. He hated it. 

Watching him, Mycroft sighed and sat down in the other chair, picking up some work.

That sigh, Sherlock reminded himself, was surely a sigh of pity, of disgust. What was he still doing here? Mycroft must be done with him by now. 

“I can leave, if you want,” Sherlock choked out, trying to hide the despair behind a veil of arrogance.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“You don’t need to lie, I know I am a burden. Always have been. At least sleeping rough I only burden myself.” Sherlock spoke to the bookshelf, refusing to see the look on Mycroft’s face.

“I told you I’d like you to stay here.”

“And if I had my cocaine, if my mind had been sharp, I would have seen it for the lie it was,” Sherlock spat out. “I’ve always been so stupid, as you’ve reminded me.”

“It’s not a lie, Sherlock.”

“How could it not be?”

“Because I’m telling you the truth.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, “You’ll have to do better than tautology.”

“I don’t know how else I can convince you.”

“I don’t even know why you are trying. Is this some game to play with me? Act as though you care, get me clean, so I’m not a monumental embarrassment to the family name? I had to bribe you to even touch me; I’m sure I disgust you.”

“You don’t. You just make me feel helpless. I don’t know how to help you.”

He scoffed, “You know everything. You are never _not_ playing some game. No one likes me, no one cares about me, certainly no one loves me.” His voice cracked at the end, and his face screwed up at the sign of weakness. 

Getting to his feet again, Mycroft ran fingers through his hair again, feeling tired.

"See," Sherlock gestured at Mycroft, "This is exactly it. You either get me clever, confident and high, or you get me stupid, weak, pathetic, and sober. And you don't like either. I have no idea how to be anything else."

“I’d like to help you find that middle ground.”

Sherlock just slumped; his whole body crying out his sense of hopelessness. “How?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can see that I am exhausting you. I’m used to people tiring quickly of me; it’s fine. I’ll take up in the spare bedroom so you needn’t be bothered by me.” Sherlock stood, heading back up the stairs. 

“No, Sherlock, please.” Mycroft pleaded.

Sherlock turned, resignation on his face, “If you have any ideas, if you can fix me, tell me.”

Mycroft stepped towards him, reached to pull him into his arms. 

Sherlock let him, arms slack at his sides. 

Mycroft simply hugged him, holding him close, feeling like Sherlock was already slipping from his fingers. For a few awkward moments, they stood there, Sherlock limp and despondent, and Mycroft holding him up, at a loss for anything else to do or say. 

At last, Sherlock pulled himself away. He made his way to the bedroom to gather his things, still feeling the loss of Mycroft’s touch around his waist. 

He wanted to stay, even more than the drugs, more than anything, but not more than Mycroft. If he stayed, he would self destruct, and he would take Mycroft with him. And Mycroft would let him. Sherlock would rather destroy himself, if only to spare Mycroft.

Sherlock came down the stairs, looked to the clock, and sighed. He could stay clean the next hour and a half, but he couldn’t stay here while he did so. 

He looked up, where Mycroft hadn’t moved from his spot in the library. Sherlock tried to flash a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’ll show myself out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft: [Janto321](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321) on AO3, and [merindab](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. 
> 
> Sherlock: PhiPiOhSum475 on [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475) and on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com).


End file.
